...split bits of saints and wires hang over
head, spilt from the cracks of rust
of lust. The hallway hasexplainswine,
contains Locke in Stockings and you,
smocking ness in the sick
made from butterfly soup cooked
under hours and
hours and minutes and seconds—
greeting the difference between the pretention and
proliferate of the real as a matter of purpose.
And then...